


Up and Running

by Not_You



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Age Difference, Cannibalism, Dildos, F/M, Gross, Hand Jobs, Impotence, Makeup, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Phil the Friendly Zombie, Pining, UST, Wet Dream, Zombies, i promise no rotting, this will all work out somehow, undead!Phil, zombie eating habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this kinkmeme prompt:</p><p>Coulson returns to his office and promptly carries on with his duties. Sure, he's still dead, but he's not about to let something petty get in the way of all that paperwork...</p><p>How and why is up to the author (though I'd prefer Fury starting out just as baffled as anyone else). Feel free to work some humor into this, but I'd prefer it not be total crack.</p><p>Also no brainz eating or...rotting.</p><p>And I say any, but I do ship Phil with Clint, Steve and Fury quite readily.<br/>http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11264.html?thread=26825216#t26825216,</p><p>(The inspiration is very loose, but 'Now, As Before' is awesome and where I'm getting almost all of Phil's physicality and zombie rules.</p><p>And now it's Phil/Darcy, but any means any, damn it. XD)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Now, As Before](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/23773) by etherati. 



Phil wakes up hungry. He quickly figures out that he's in a box and remembers that he's dead, but that doesn't do a damn thing about how hungry he is. His only course of action is the same one he's been faced with so many other times: fighting his way out. It takes a long, long time, and by the time he crawls up out of the earth he can barely see straight. The light hurts his eyes even though the sun is just barely beginning to rise over this nice, quiet little graveyard. Phil could have been buried at Arlington, but he had never wanted that. Doesn't want that, he supposes. He puts a hand to his chest and feels no heartbeat, but the hunger is still there. A flash of movement makes him pounce, and suddenly he has a kicking rabbit in his hands. Phil has always been fast, but never this fast. He has no time to contemplate that, however. Instinct takes over and he bites out the animal's throat, sitting down on his own tombstone to devour the whole thing. It should be disgusting, but nothing has ever tasted so good as this fresh, warm meat. He eats the whole thing before the blood is even cold, spitting out bones and fur. He's not hungry anymore (at least not as much, he could probably eat another rabbit) and now has time to notice that he's cold. He's cold and just ate raw meat and has climbed out of his own grave.

"Never thought I'd end up as a zombie," he mutters, but zombie or no, he knows SHIELD still needs him. He can tell by the state of the graveside that he hasn't been under all that long, and starts walking down the gently rolling hill, wishing he could do something about all the blood on his shirt. He doesn't see anyone for a long time, watchmen still in bed. Hitching a ride while looking like god knows what is out of the question. Not only is there all that rabbit blood on his shirt, but he can see that his hands are pallid white, and has to assume his face is the same. He absently straightens his thinning hair, and wonders if he'll lose any more of it now that he's one of the undead. Presumably not, and the thought makes him laugh. The sound is a little cracked, but still. It's good to be able to laugh. And to have his own unique skill set, which allows him to steal clothes off of a line and dress in something that isn't a blood-stained funeral suit. He doesn't like the oversized t-shirt and jeans and doesn't like having to steal them, but he needs something. He doesn't even have money to leave, and just memorizes the address for compensation later. 

At least being a secret agent lets him stow away in the luggage compartment of a bus when he finally finds one. The ride to the nearest city with a SHIELD office is dark and hot, but Phil doesn't seem to need to breathe, and the warmth is pleasant. He actually falls asleep, waking up when the door opens and shooting out before anyone can catch him. After being sure he has ditched all pursuit, Phil ducks into a men's room to see the damage. The place is empty and he walks to the mirror, staring in fascinated horror. There's still a little dried blood on his dead white face, and his eyes… He steps closer, gazing into them in the mirror. There's a shine to the pupil like that of a nocturnal predator, and his irises have changed. The blue-grey is still there, but now there are striations of gold in them, the rim red instead of dark. He stares for a long time before the door opens and he steps back from the mirror and washes his face and hands. Sunglasses. That's the obvious next step. He leaves and steals a pair from a little kiosk, feeling less guilty because they can have no sentimental value and are incredibly cheap anyway. With his eyes covered and the blood washed off (well enough, anyway) he can start walking to the SHIELD office. 

It's a long way in the summer sun, but it doesn't bother him the way it would have before. It just feels nice and warm on his back. He wonders if there's still a hole through his torso, and gingerly checks, finding a divot in his chest and a matching one in his back. That's good. He doesn't want to whistle in the wind. The thought makes him giggle hysterically for a minute or two before he can shake it off and keep walking. He hopes just hopes Nick isn't too pissed.


	2. Homing

There are two receptionists, both young agents who don't recognize him. He asks if the Director is there, shades still on, and he can see the suspicion in both their faces. He sighs. "Please, just tell him Cheese is here. It's an old nickname, he'll know me." This is sufficiently spy-like that they let him sit and wait as they call Nick.

"Director? This is the Deer Meadow office, and there's a man here asking to speak to you. Says you'll know him as 'Cheese.' Director? Right. Yes. Of course. We'll keep him here." They come around the desk, Tasers out, and inform Phil that he is to be detained until the Director arrives. He goes peaceably, and is sitting in one of SHIELD's white holding cells when Nick arrives four hours later. He feels ridiculous in his stolen clothes and sunglasses, but gives no sign of it. Nick just stops in his tracks, staring at him.

"…Phil?"

"Yes. I know I've been gone a long time."

"Phil, you've been fucking dead."

"I think I still am, but… I didn't know where else to go." It comes out more pleading than he wants it to, and Nick sighs.

"You know I'm going to have to interrogate you. And take those damn shades off."

"Yes, sir," Phil says, and does so.

"Jesus, your eyes."

"I know."

It takes hours more of asking about things only the two of them know before Nick is completely convinced, but Phil wasn't expecting any different. "Marcus?" He finally asks, Nick settled beside him. Nick shudders, and puts an arm around Phil shoulders. "Yes?"

"I'm cold."

"You are."

"I don't think I generate my own heat anymore."

"You probably don't."

"…I'm hungry, Nick."

"Oh, shit. Phil, I really don't wanna have to shoot the brain to kill the ghoul, here."

"Thank you. I ate a rabbit when I woke up, but that was a long time ago."

"Huh… Think a raw steak would work?"

"Maybe." Phil doesn't even really like rare meat, but then again, he generally doesn't eat things with the fur still on them. Nick still isn't completely sure of Phil, so he leaves him where he is as he goes to see about food. As Phil waits, he gets colder and colder, and more and more hungry. It's all he can do not to pace the room, and he growls when the door opens, looking up.

"Steak tartare, Coulson. Eat it and not me."

"Never eat you," Coulson growls, taking the dish, "too stringy." Raw steak turns out to be wonderful now, and he devours it almost as messily as he had the rabbit, looking up in the middle of licking the dish clean to… well, it seems like he can't blush anymore, but the thought is there.

"Damn, you really were hungry. Need any more?"

Phil shakes his head, looking for something to dab the blood off of his face and finding a paper napkin. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. We're gonna have to keep you here until you're figured out a little better, but I believe that you're Phil Coulson."

Phil smiles, and he can tell by the look on Nick's face that it's the same smile he's always had, that this one thing hasn't changed.

The next few days are full of interrogation and appointments with SHIELD doctors, who draw his slow, cold blood and poke his slow-healing flesh with needles. They even find evidence of a heartbeat, just a sluggish twitch. Everything is slowed down except for Phil himself. He moves faster than he did in his teens, and is stronger than he was in his twenties and honestly feels pretty good except for being cold all the time. There seems to be no way to really deal with that other than to keep his cell at tropic temperatures, cool skin dry as he sits there in his recovered suits. He's still not cleared to work, and occupies himself with reading, figuring out what he can and can't eat, and discovering that he seems to be completely impotent now. This comes as a shock despite his inhumanly low blood pressure. It's not just being unable to rise to any occasion, but that otherwise his response seems the same. His cock is soft and cool in his hands, each touch like ice on ice, burning and clear and sharp. He doesn't bite his knuckles to keep quiet, because with his strength it seems like a good way to lose fingers, and he does his best not to think of anyone he knows. He has always been shy about that, and now that he would be involving any second party in necrophilia he's shyer still, thinking of hands without faces and mouths without names.


	3. Waiting

SHIELD is calling it a 'metabolic disorder' now, though as Nick says, that's one hell of a disorder. They haven't tested him for combat capability yet, but Phil can feel it coming. It manifests in a dream about fighting alongside Marcus, way back in the day. Phil is tearing throats out like the monster that he is now, when a faint sound from the real world makes him open his eyes. The cell is dark, but he can see just fine, and stares as Barton approaches the bed. There's a wild urge to leap on the intruder and destroy him, but Phil has missed Barton, and he just shivers and sits up.

"What are you doing here?" And looking more closely, Barton looks like hell, like he hasn't been eating or sleeping as much as he needs to. He also looks a little bit like he's on speed, but he doesn't do that anymore.

"Getting you out."

"Barton…"

"I don't care what you are now, I'm not letting them keep you here like some kind of monster."

"Barton, we're just doing necessary tests. I'm not positive I'm safe to be around yet."

"…You're sure?"

"The worst that's happened to me since I woke up is a few needles."

Barton slumps in relief, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I didn't want to believe Fury would do that to an old friend, but he's pretty fucking scary, and with all that Hulk data we found…"

"Hulk data?"

"Yeah. Ross fucking tortured him."

Phil hadn't really known Banner at all, but protective anger flares up anyway. That and gratitude. "Thank you, Barton. For coming to get me."

"Any time, sir." They sit in silence for a while before Barton asks, "So, what's changed?"

"Everything."

"Oh."

"I'm carnivorous now. I can see in the dark." Phil looks down at his own bare feet, so pale. "I heal slowly but I hardly bleed. My heart only beats once every fifteen minutes, and I'm stronger and faster now."

"So you're a fast zombie, got it. Do you have to eat brains, or can it be any meat?"

"I've been living on steak tartare this whole time and it seems to be working."

"Huh." 

"It's delicious now, but anything that isn't meat tastes like metal."

It seems like Barton is going to ask him something else when the cell is suddenly flooded with light. Both of them curse and shield their eyes. "It's Barton!" Phil calls, "Don't shoot him, he's just concerned!"

"I'll bet," Nick says, stepping into the room. "Barton, how in the hell did Romanov get you this information? And don't say you did it yourself because I won't believe you."

"It was a team effort, Director."

"Right. Are you satisfied now that we're not torturing Coulson?"

"…Pretty much. Sir."

"Good, because it's three o'clock in the goddamn morning. Have you and Romanov told the rest of the team?"

"Not yet, but Stark is on the verge of figuring it out anyway."

"Of course he is." He asks Barton a few more questions before insisting that he leave and not tell any of the others about this yet, because they still don't know Phil's limits. "I don't want to say, 'Sparky's alive again, kids' only to have to shoot him in the head, capisce? No offense, Coulson."

"None taken, Director."

"I see your point." Clint stands, allowing an escort to form around him. "You better fix those cards, though, sir," he says as they usher him out, and every line of Nick's body looks guilty.

"Cards, Nick?"

"Look, you were dead, I had to have something…"

"What have you done?" His voice has dropped down into a lethal growl.

"I got fake blood on them, but only on the laminate sleeves. Okay, maybe a little got on the cards, but I'll get them restored."

"And signed."

"And signed. Rogers will be happy to."

Phil manages to stop growling, but he's still angry as he falls asleep again, and doesn't speak to Nick more than he has to for a few days. Nick responds by hanging around the cell and making sure Phil gets the freshest possible meat, which from him is practically howling remorse. Phil softens toward him again, especially after getting his trading cards back and finding them all pristine again. He hoards them for days, knowing that they're some of the only things he still owns simply because he never had the heart to really will them away and being buried with them had seemed infantile. As more and more of the testing shows all his strange new biorhythms to be stable, Phil decides that he'd rather get the cards signed himself, hoping that Steve won't be too alarmed to do it. He tucks them into the inner pocket of his jacket, running his fingertips over the divot in his chest and feeling very human and very monstrous.


	4. Meeting

"Wake up."

Steve has seldom heard Tony sound so serious, and sits up in bed, blinking. "Tony?"

"Yes, fucking keep up!" He's practically dancing in place, looking crazed.

Steve groans and rubs his eyes, glancing at the clock to see that it's half-past three in the morning. "What is it?"

"This." Tony thrusts a file folder into his hands. At first Steve doesn't understand, because the file just talks about subject VT-10, but then he finds the photos. They're of Phil Coulson, which wouldn't signify if he wasn't deathly pale, with strange eyes looking out. He still has the wound from Loki's scepter

"What the hell is this?"

"Phil's a zombie and SHIELD has him in a lab. Come on, Steve. Truth, Justice, and the American Way!"

"That's Superman, Tony." Steve says it absently, still staring at the file. He hates to think of goodhearted, nervous Agent Coulson locked away anywhere, especially by his own organization. "Do you know where this is?"

"Don't be insulting, Capsicle."

It's only when he calls the team together that they realize Clint and Natasha are missing. Horrible visions dance in his head as he suits up, and Tony flies them in Clint's absence. All Steve can do is hope that SHIELD hasn't betrayed them. For some reason he can't stop thinking about Bucky, maybe because that moment of unbearable dread before he fells was something like this. Tony is muttering under his breath about lying bastards and Bruce is just very white and very quiet. Thor just broods with Mjolnir in his lap like a pet.

The installation is well-hidden, but Tony's intel is good. Steve creeps in as quietly as possible, desperately wishing for Natasha's stealth right up until she appears in front of him like a ghost. He stops and stares. "Natasha! Are you all right?"

"Yes, and so is Coulson."

The corridor floods with light, and Fury is standing there with his arms folded, looking even crankier than usual. "Damn it, Romanov!"

"If they've gotten this far, they're not going to be put off with 'our princess is in another castle,' Director."

"Princess? What? Sir, I need to know the whereabouts of Agent Coulson."

"You don't need to know shit, but between you and Stark I know I’m not gonna get a minute's peace until you do."

"We consider him one of our own, sir," Steve says.

"And he'll be just touched as hell to hear that."

"Where is he, sir?"

Fury sighs and rolls his eyes. "Get the boys in here, you might as well all see him if you're gonna care this much. Why the hell is it always three in the morning?" He mutters to himself.

Steve calls the rest of his team in, and Fury actually softens a bit at the look on Bruce's face. "He's all right, I swear," he says, and leads them through several winding corridors to a holding cell with a transparent wall. Through it, they can see Clint perched on a chair and laughing at Coulson as he hops a red checker across the board.

"King me, Frank."

"I call a moratorium on Frankenstein jokes," Coulson says, voice just the same, "and on laughing at me for saying 'moratorium.'"

"Okay, okay. Hey, guys!" Clint waves. "Fury made me and Tasha promise not to tell you for a while, but I see you caught up."

"Yeah, we did," Steve says, crossing his arms and feeling stupid and relieved and angry.

"Steve, we were about to tell you." Natasha puts a hand on his arm. "Coulson has been here for his own safety, to make sure he's stable and to try and find out what's keeping him alive."

Coulson stands and comes to the wall, smiling shyly. He's so strange to look at now, but beautiful too. His eyes are ringed with fire, and stand out sharply against his white skin. The icy shadows are like bruises on his face, and his diffident expression is a strange contrast to that otherworldly look. Steve wants to paint him. "Agent Coulson," he says, putting his hands to the glass, "it's good to see you again." Coulson dips his head for a moment, looking up again.

"Is it?"

Steve smiles. "Yes, soldier, it is. How are you?"

"I'm pretty good for a dead man, Captain. Thank you."

"Aw, isn't that sweet?" Clint says, and Tony cackles. Bruce just wobbles a bit, and runs his hand through his hair, taking deep, slow breaths.

They spend the rest of the night there, talking to Phil and learning all about what it's like to be VT-10. It sounds lonely, but SHIELD is most definitely not torturing Coulson, and Steve can finally sign each and every one of his trading cards for him. Fury prowls around in the background, watching, and even Clint doesn't tease Coulson about the way he can't stop smiling.


	5. Living

Combat testing does not go well because Phil is too scary. Fury is disgusted that hardened agents can't face even one little zombie without losing it, but Phil is fast and light and the first time he bites one of his attackers on the padded forearm and gets tears in response they scrap the whole thing, at least for a little while. It's just too embarrassing for everyone involved. Phil hadn't even thought about biting, had just done it. Like an animal. Or a monster. He doesn't really like looking in the mirror because even if he is alive he looks dead. It's unnerving, and his gold-red-blue gaze doesn't help, either. Nor does the constant menu of delicious raw meat. Even if it is delicious. Phil can't help but wonder how it would be if it was still warm, how it would be to run something down and eat it the way he did that first rabbit. He had been too hungry to taste anything then.

Now he looks up as Clint comes in with lunch. "Hey, Phil."

"Hey. Is that an egg yolk on mine?"

"Thought you might like the variety, and they said you could digest it."

"I can, and it does look good." It looks like the disk of the sun, and coats the meat in rich gold when he breaks it with his fork. They sit there and have their surreal meal in comfortable silence, the living dead man enjoying his steak tartare and the normal human his sloppy joe. Clint has always taken comfort from cafeteria food, and Phil wonders if that's the function it's serving now.

"So Steve's gonna come visit sometime today," Clint says, and Phil blinks.

"He is?"

"Yeah. Wants you to know he meant what he said and all that. Natasha is working on some makeup for you, too. You're totally due for a fieldtrip."

"I'll have you know that I'm being very productive here."

"I'm sure you are, but you still need to get out. Come on man, you're back from the dead!

Phil laughs, because Clint is one of the few people who will just say it like that. "Well, maybe I do."

His team judges that he does, at any rate, and three days later he's out on the streets again, walking hand-in-hand with Natasha, one of their best disguises. She's in a flat blonde wig and a dress that makes her look thicker than she is, and has painted Phil in all the tones of life, as well as giving him a wig of his own. It's strange to have so much hair again, but it looks natural enough. The makeup does too, and he almost feels like a normal man again. Almost. Contact lenses hide his eyes, and he does his best not to drool as they pass a shop window with whole ducks hanging. He should have known Chinatown would be a mistake, but it's far enough from his usual haunts or Avengers tower to be reasonably safe in every other respect.

"Hungry?" Natasha asks.

"Very." 

She just nods and makes a call. Phil is expecting SHIELD agents when the car pulls up, but instead they get Happy. True to his name, the knowledge of what Phil is doesn't seem to bother him much. He takes them to the tower and they slip in by one of the many less conspicuous entrances and take the private elevator up to the top floors. The stop on the common floor and step out to find that Tony has ordered a lavish sushi lunch for everyone.

"About time you got here, Agent. There's some tuna sashimi with your name on it."

And there actually is a placecard with 'Agent' scrawled on it by his plate, and Phil suddenly feels like he's about to cry because of course Tony would do this, would order cuisine where raw is normal. Phil hasn't tried fish yet, and sits down to find out if it will agree with his new system. Across from him, Steve smiles.

"We figured it was worth a shot." His own plate is all vegetarian and tempura, and Phil smiles back.

It turns out that tuna steak works just as well as cow steak, and Phil devours what must be a fortune in fish as Tony just beams at him. There are other kinds as well, cut into generous chunks. Each one is delicate and flavorful, colors ranging from deep red to milky white. 

"Needed a change of pace, didn't you, boss?" Clint asks, and Phil chuckles.

"I guess I did. Thank you, Tony. This is delicious."

"Hey, just 'cause you're dead doesn't mean you can't enjoy the finer things in life. Was that insensitive? Shit, that was insensitive."

"Tony, that's _you_." Phil says, and laughs again.


	6. Freezing

It's only a matter of time before SHIELD's enemies learn that Phil is no longer dead, but changed. He's in the field again when they capture him, and is at first just exasperated and then embarrassed. Torture doesn't frighten him, and he has already been dead and knows that it's not that bad. He just feels stupid for getting caught until he realizes what they have planned. They're going to starve him. The shaking and madness that start to come over him when he's hungry are frightening, and Phil doesn't know what will happen to his mind, what he'll do like this. Sitting in a vastly less comfortable cell than his one at SHIELD, he gets hungrier and hungrier, and so cold. He starts to wish he could die again, because it would be an end to this winter inside him. He curls up into a tiny ball, drifting in and out of consciousness.

And then he smells meat. Warm, living, blood-filled meat, and he raises his head, eyes seeing clearly in the near-dark. There is something at the other end of the cell, and it smells delicious. Phil scrambles over, half-running and half-crawling. He has his cold hands on the thing a second later, and it's soft and so, so warm, all that blood humming in all that meat. He buries his face in its neck and then the words finally come through, the desperate, high-pitched, "Pleasedon'teatmepleasedon'teatme…" It's a woman's voice. A young one, too, and Phil draws back in horror, hands clapped over his watering mouth. He can see her white face in the dark, and recognizes Darcy Lewis, one of many SHIELD interns. "Oh, thank god," she says. "You're still in there."

"Barely, Ms. Lewis," Phil croaks.

"Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Think you can keep just almost eating me?"

"I am so sorry."

"It's been a week, I was surprised to see you still had that much go."

Phil cringes, going back to his corner and sitting on the floor, his hands over his face. He truly is a monster. He takes a moment to let the horror sink in, and then pushes it aside. With Darcy here, his resolve to get out flares up again. He will not devour an innocent girl. He may not be able to get her out of this and even pretend to still be human, but he will get her out of this.

They come back to check on Darcy, chuckling to find her still alive. "Yo, I think you killed him," she says. "I mean, he was supposed to eat me, right?"

"Why didn't he?"

"'Cause he's curled up like a pillbug. I think he's dead again."

They curse, coming in to investigate. They're cautious, one holding a gun on Darcy, the other one keeping his weapon trained on Phil, but Phil is excellent at playing dead, because he's hardly playing. He's ice cold, and he hasn't felt his heart beat all day. He stays stiff, cold muscle making it easy to do, and lets the guard roll him around like a disinterested bear. "He looks pretty fucking dead, all right."

"He always looks dead," the other one snarls, "put a bullet in his brain to be sure."

"Why, so we can tell the boss we killed him? Don't be a dumbass."

When they're sure Phil is really dead and their guard is down, he attacks. Everything after that comes in red flashes. Tearing out the guards's throats and spitting out his mouthful, because he will not be a cannibal, he will not. Darcy running behind him as he tears through everything ahead of him. He doesn't remember most of the installation, his usual recall gone in hunger and rage and he will not. He will not eat what he kills here, even if the hot blood is delicious, even if he is dying again, he will not.

And then he does die again, or it seems like it. They're outside and it's getting darker and darker and colder and colder, and it's happening so fast and next to him Darcy is nothing but delicious meat and Phil is glad he's too weak to move, glad he's dying again, because he will not. He will not eat human flesh, least of all an innocent person's, and that's all he knows for a dark eternity.

Phil is so surprised to open his eyes again, and dazzled by the light. "What—" He's warm, warm the way he hardly ever is anymore.

"I guess you were blacked out when we fed you," Nick says, stepping closer, his silhouette blocking some of the light. The light of hot sun lamps, Phil realizes.

"I guess I was." Phil feels sudden and heart-wrenching dread, thinking of Darcy.

"You can watch the surveillance footage if you want, Phil. You got through about fifteen pounds of steak before you calmed down."

"Ms. Lewis?"

"Safe. Uneaten."

Phil feels his heart beat again.


	7. Visiting

It's hard to face anyone but Nick, who has seen so much of the very worst humanity has to offer. He knows what people can do even without hunger like Phil's riding them, and he also knows how to keep his mouth shut. He keeps the sunlamps on for days and just sits with Phil for a long while, saying nothing. Phil will see one of SHIELD's shrinks. Eventually. Right now he doesn't feel like doing anything. Even though Pepper has finally been apprised of his whereabouts, Phil hasn't felt up to seeing her. Instead he watches the surveillance footage, both of himself cramming steak into his maw, and the recovered footage from the compound. It's disgusting, but also a relief to see himself spitting out the human flesh, and gnawing on what is clearly beef. He watches it over and over, burning it into his memory that even starving he didn't eat anyone. He's in the middle of yet another viewing when Darcy comes to visit. She raps on his door and doesn't flinch when he whips around, surprised.

"Hey," She says, "you gonna let me in, or what?"

"I'm surprised you would want me to, Ms. Lewis," he says, opening the door. She glances past him to the screen and wrinkles her nose.

"Seriously?"

If Phil wasn't what he is now, his face would be scalding with the embarrassment he feels. "It's not… I… I blacked out, Ms. Lewis, and woke up not knowing where you were."

Her expression softens. "Oh. Yeah, I'm fine. A little freaked out, but fine. It took me a bit to get it together enough to visit you, but I figured I should."

"You didn't have to do this."

"I don't know, maybe I did." She steals Phil's chair, and he sits on the edge of his bed, watching her as she shuts off the video files. "Are you like, angsting about being a monster in here?"

"Maybe a little."

"Well, don't. You didn't eat me, and you didn't even eat the fuckers who starved you in the first place and kidnapped us both. That's pretty damn restrained."

"…Thank you."

She smiles at him, sudden and bright. "Seriously, come on. You need to get out of here." She stands up and takes his arm, hauling him to his feet.

"And where were you thinking of going?"

"I dunno, to the tower to see Pepper? She misses you, you know."

Phil misses Pepper right back, and gives in without much more persuasion. He considers wearing his living man makeup, but Pepper will see what he really looks like eventually, and it might as well be now. His stomach knots up in the elevator, and Darcy sighs. "Don't worry, she knows. She's more pissed at Tony for keeping her in the dark than anything."

Phil sighs. "I can imagine." He looks up as they reach the first of the Avengers's common floors, and lets Darcy step out ahead of him. 

"Agent Coulson," JARVIS says, "welcome back."

"Thank you, Jarvis."

"Phil!" Pepper comes running over on her sky-high heels with the balance that makes Phil want to use her as an example for junior agents and hugs him, fearless and unrestrained. He returns it, eyes prickling with tears.

"Hey, Pepper. I'm sorry I didn't come by sooner."

"You were getting over a kidnapping. That takes a while." She pulls away a little, eyes bright and full of tears, to smile at Darcy. "Hello, Darcy. It's good to see you again."

"Yeah, I think I'm mostly done freaking out for now, thanks."

"I am so sorry," Phil mutters.

Darcy shrugs. "Hey, you were starving and didn't eat me, we're cool."

Pepper sighs. "Poor Phil. I have some tuna steaks, if you're hungry now."

Tuna steaks do sound good, and Pepper sears one for herself and Darcy to share, plating another for Phil. He cuts it up into tiny, delicate, civilized bites, and he and Pepper catch up for a while, Pepper telling him all about the management tour she had been on and finding out all about Phil's resurrection, while Darcy asks periodic questions and nibbles at the tuna like a kitten.

"Don't be too mad at Tony," Phil says, "He didn't want to distract you while you were trying to work."

Pepper sighs. "It's true that I would have wanted to drop everything and come back to see you, but I could have either come up with a plausible excuse or held off. It's like he doesn't trust me."

"Other people have trust issues. Tony has volumes."

"God, I've missed you, Phil."

"Can I just say that this tuna is amazing? 'Cause this tuna is amazing."

Pepper smiles. "Thank you, Darcy," she says, and Phil knows she doesn't just mean for the compliment.


	8. Longing

Phil isn’t really expecting Darcy to visit him again. The first one makes sense as an isolated exertion of kindness and courage, Darcy facing the monster and feeling sorry for it. She has better things to do than hang around with a dead man who would be nearly twice her age if he were alive. Phil turns his attention to his paperwork, and is positively shocked when Darcy appears at his door, looking small and colorful between two black-suited agents.

“Hey.” She gives him an energetic wave, beaming.

Phil blinks, getting up from his desk and coming over to let her in. “Hello, Ms. Lewis.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Call me Darcy, seriously. What are you working on? Is it like, classified?”

He chuckled. “No, not this time. These are mostly invoices.”

“Bleh.” She sits on the edge of his bed and looks around. “Kinda cell-like, y’know?”

Phil shrugs. “It suits me reasonably well. How can I help you?”

“I just thought I’d come by to hang out. See how you were doing. That kind of thing.”

The end up watching old movies together, Phil explaining the archaic references and slang Darcy doesn’t get. It makes him feel old, but not in a bad way, and that’s novel. By the time she leaves they have plans for the next day, and soon movie night (or afternoon) with Darcy has become a regular thing. She has more time than the Avengers, who visit him and take him out often enough to keep him from feeling forgotten, but are also gone a lot. He understands. It comes with the territory.

Of course, along with his gratitude for her company, Phil can’t help but notice how lovely his new friend is. He puts the thought aside whenever it arises because it’s irrelevant. He’s a fossil. A walking corpse. Darcy is a vibrant young woman who could have anyone she wanted. Phil sternly tells himself that he’s not even thinking about it, and that the feeling he gets when she exposes her white throat in a laugh is entirely bestial and has nothing to do with Phil Coulson as a person. He can even believe it until the dream where he pursues Darcy down narrow, crooked alleys in some city of night. 

The crescent moon sings overhead and the stars are red as blood and he can hear every beat of her terrified heart as they fly over the pavement. She’s as naked as any other prey animal, pale skin glowing softly in the dark, her hair flying behind her like a second shadow. She stays ahead of Phil for a while, however much that is in the time of dreams, but he catches her in the end. Pounces like a cat and tackles her to the ground, burying his face in that dark hair and drowning in her scent. Her heart is still pounding, but her scent is different now. Eager. He growls and finally bites, but just her shoulder, and just to hold her in place while he fucks her hard, the way he can’t anymore. She’s so hot, all that living skin blazing against him, her cunt almost scalding.

Phil jolts awake, gasping and knowing that he would be painfully hard if he still got hard. He feels cold and miserable, bereft of that phantom heat. He’s also ashamed, but he doesn’t bother to fight it. Just switches on the space heater by his bed and strokes his cock slowly. The permanent limpness has taken a lot of getting used to, but he can still come and works for it now, torturing himself with the memory of the dream and everything he could never do even if Darcy did feel that way about him. Which she doesn’t. And shouldn’t, it would be necrophilia. He’s silent when he comes, and then starts to laugh and cry at the same time. It takes him a while to calm down and wipe away the pink, blood-tinted tears he cries now, but he finally does. By that point it’s early morning instead of late night, and he gets up and showers and puts all his layers on over cool skin, each one more correct than the last.

Determined to bore himself into propriety, Phil prioritizes his least interesting paperwork and doesn’t even play any particularly interesting music, feeling like he’s part of some Victorian anti-masturbation experiment. Too bad the bland, meatless diet is no longer an option. Some of the strangest parts of being undead are the things that don’t change, and he flinches when his stomach growls.

“Hey,” Darcy calls from the doorway, “nice timing!”

“Excuse me?”

“I came to pry you of here for some lunch.” She smiles, and Phil’s still heart flutters.

He means to say any number of things, about his work, the forms on his desk, her time having better uses; but what comes out of his mouth is, “Let me put on my face.” It’s what his mother always said about her own makeup, and seems more than appropriate for what he needs to wear these days.


	9. Craving

Phil can see her behind him in the mirror, her skin so pale but so alive next to his skim milk white and snow shadow blue as he carefully paints himself in living Caucasian tints. Darcy is quiet and lets him work, and she doesn’t speak until he puts in his second contact lens. They’re made for him, perfectly shaded to damp blood red and flame gold down to human blue-grey.

“It’s kinda too bad,” Darcy says.

“What?”

“You look cool the way you are, and it seems like a lot of trouble. Too bad there’s no man-burqa or anything for you. If you were a chick you could wear fabulous vintage hats with veils.”

“I don’t think that look works as well if the person in the hat was the same vintage _before_ they moved from ‘old’ to ‘dead.’”

“It’s all in the attitude. And besides, dead guys are sexy, or haven’t you seen the sales figures on vampires lately? Though that ‘Warm Bodies’ movie wasn’t that good…”

Phil laughs, putting his cosmetics away and shutting off the light. “It needed to make up its mind about exactly what kind of movie it was.”

“Why am I so not surprised that you’ve seen that? Come on.” She grabs his arm, imperious and fearless, and drags him out. They pass a few junior (and not so junior) agents in the corridors who practically dive out of Phil’s way, but Darcy doesn’t even seem to notice. She’s too busy telling him all about the totally amazing sushi bar they’ll be going to. Apparently it’s blacklit and architecturally interesting, with a good soundtrack and better Hamachi. Given Darcy’s youth and general… Darcy-ness, Phil takes both these latter pieces of information with a grain of salt. He’s disconcerted to realize that he won’t mind even if the food is terrible and the background music gives him a headache. This is a terrible state of affairs, but Phil has made a career out of being realistic. Darcy hails a cab and fills the back seat with her chatter and aliveness for the whole trip. Phil just sits there, dazzled and hoping his eyes aren’t too obviously glazed. He rouses from his infatuated stupor long enough to insist on paying for the cab, but Darcy judo-flips it into an insistence on paying for lunch.

“After all, I invited you. And I know you’ll get all sashimi, I budgeted for that.”

“So elegantly defeated,” he sighs, and she laughs, holding the door for him and coming into the cool darkness after.

“You’ll get used to it.”

The pierced, purple-haired hostess greets them before Phil can say anything in reply, and Darcy ensures that they’re given a corner booth, dark and private and out of the way. It’s good strategy when one’s companion is a zombie in living man makeup, and he tells her so after their waiter leaves them alone with water and menus.

She makes an adorable dismissive noise. “What _ever_ , this is just my favorite booth. And working where I do has made me kinda paranoid about being overheard.”

“True.”

“But, since I’m pretty sure no one’s listening…” She goes on to relate all the SHIELD gossip she has absorbed in her time with the organization, which is a very impressive amount for her clearance level. It improves with her telling, and he feels horribly like a vampire for how much he enjoys Darcy’s vitality. Still, it’s a very pleasant lunch and time passes quickly, even with the slightly grating J-rock over the speakers. Darcy has to get back to work because living people have schedules, but on the ride back she somehow gets Phil to agree to see a movie with her next week. Nothing he has heard of, but she assures him that it’s not too artsy or too Hollywood.

“It’s kinda in between? Like, made independently but by people who have made real movies before, not some randos shooting their own zombie apocalypse on video or anything.” She stops suddenly, going red. “I mean—Not that I’d take _you_ to a…. Jesus, help me,” she mutters, covering her face. Phil isn’t sure if he’s more amused or anxious to put her at ease. He settles for not suppressing his smile and patting her shoulder at the same time.

“It’s all right, Darcy. I find the struggles of my people to be inadequately represented onscreen.” She freezes for a moment and he can see her trying to figure out if he’s serious or not before she bursts into laughter. It’s a musical sound, and he can’t help but join in.

“I think it’s more about insanity, anyway.”

“A lot of good stories are.”

“I can’t promise it won’t suck, but if it does you can bitch as much as you want.”

Phil agrees that this is fair, and is going to shake her hand (which feels weird, and wrong, but a hug seems weird too, and he just has to touch her and nothing has been this awkward in at least fifteen years) when she closes the gap and hugs him tightly, enveloping him in softness and perfume and sweet musk. His sense of smell is so much sharper since his resurrection that for a moment everything else goes away and he’s afraid he’s going to do something stupid. And then Darcy lets go and blinds him with another smile. “Well. Back to the salt mines.” She lets him pay for the cab again, and clicks away with admirable speed in her impractical shoes, yelling that she’ll call him.


	10. Dating

Phil doesn’t actually understand what’s going on until he says it out loud. Clint asks if he wants to go to the little family-owned Korean place with the amazing yukhoe on Friday, and Phil pauses in his paperwork. “Thanks, but I’m going out with Darcy that night.”

“…Darcy?” And the grin on Clint’s face should be illegal and probably is, somewhere. “Darcy Lewis? The intern with the huge tracts of land?”

“First, the moratorium on Holy Grail references, as well as the moratorium on making fun of me for using the word ‘moratorium,’ still stands. Second, Darcy’s figure is irrelevant.”

“Shut your blaspheming mouth, Coulson. A body like that is always relevant.”

“Way to cut to the heart of sexual objectification in one pithy phrase, Barton.” He feels a strange, defensive knot in his stomach on Darcy’s behalf, and Clint must be able to see it in Phil’s face, because his expression softens.

“Hey,” he says, putting a conciliatory hand on Phil’s arm. “I didn’t mean it like that. Darcy’s a human person with thoughts and dreams and stuff, I just haven’t had anyone to tease you about in forever.”

Phil snorts. “Fair enough, but it isn’t a date.” He doesn’t say anything about his own desires on the matter, but he really doesn’t have to. When Friday evening comes and he’s debating between three different ties and checking his shoes for scuffs, he has to admit it to himself. He looks up to see Clint at the door, and cringes a little. Clint just grins and wanders in to examine Phil’s choice of neckwear

“Gotta say, I’m pretty impressed that a kid her age could rope a guy like you into two dates without him knowing it.”

“Don’t make me feel even older and deader than I am, Clint.” He sighs, letting his shoes thump back to the floor. “Besides, she hasn’t said anything. She’s probably just being nice.”

“You can be awful dumb for such a smart guy, sir.”

“Barton…”

“Seriously, if things get good, just let it happen. You’ve earned something nice in your unlife.”

“I doubt anything of the kind in is in the offing, but I’ll keep that in mind.” He slips his mirror-shined shoes back on and turns to Clint, who is carefully fingering all three ties. “Do you have an opinion?”

“The blue one brings out your contacts, the kinda wine-colored went with your skin when you had circulation but doesn’t go with your makeup, and whatever you call this one matches the suit best.”

“Perhaps.” Phil knots its off-gold length around his neck, making the perfect Windsor knot required by the thick material. It feels flashy, but almost anything does to Phil, with his years of training in being unobtrusive.

Clint paces a slow circle around him, coming to face Phil again with a decisive nod. “You look pretty good, boss.

Phil smiles, unable to help it. “Thanks, Clint.”

He meets Darcy at their destination, both of them already fed as suits their requirements. Phil runs his tongue over his teeth, hoping to god nothing is stuck in them. He flosses after every meal now, and carries mouthwash like an alcoholic might carry a hip flask. Seeing Darcy makes him stop worrying. She’s standing under a poster for some horrible CGI kids’ movie, sipping at some kind of sugary neon blue slush, and she beams at the sight of him, perfect mouth tinted blue.

“Hey, Phil! I’ve already got the tickets.”

“Financial judo again.”

“Well, I was the one to invite you.” She shrugs, and hands him his ticket. “Figure we should stake out some seats?”

Phil has Views about proper movie seating, and before he knows it, he’s actually relating them to Darcy like the huge dweeb he is, about angles and distance and the paramount importance of being in the middle. A few moments after they’ve settled into place, he catches himself and trails off, feeling like an idiot. 

Darcy just grins. “You’re adorkable.”

“…That’s a portmanteau, isn’t it?”

“Probably, yeah.” She actually leans on him a little, and Phil feels like an idiot for being so flustered after everything he has been through in his life and this strange phase of it. “Go ahead and explain if you want, it’s still just ads. No talking for the trailers, though.”

“Sounds fair,” Phil says, and does explain because he might as well.

“Cool,” Darcy says, and drinks more slush. She tells him about her day and gives him some of the preliminary word of mouth on the film, which is mostly positive. And then the trailers begin, and Darcy is utterly silent. Phil watches her more than the film, which turns out to be a self-indulgent thing about someone’s coming of age and someone else’s rejection of destructive family values and what appears to be some kind of chopped and lowered and reimagined Kirin. It’s not totally stupid, but Darcy is much more interesting. She chatters volubly on their way out, and Phil just smiles and nods. It’s so stupid to be this entranced, but he really can’t help it. Darcy escorts him all the way into the base and to the very door of his room where she thanks him for joining her and then kisses him, so swift and soft he almost misses it. He stands there with his fingers to his lips, watching as she practically runs back down the corridor.


	11. Planning

Phil has to admit that they’re dating now, and can only defend it to himself as having been Darcy’s idea. He calls her the next day just so she’ll know that his sanity wasn’t lost in death and that he doesn’t in the least mind being kissed by younger women who are miles out of his league. He also invites her out that coming weekend, to make them a little more even. He makes them a reservation for somewhere upscale and French enough that he’ll be able to get raw meat with no questions asked and to see Darcy in something nice at the same time. Natasha congratulates him on this masterstroke of strategy, and helps him to get his makeup absolutely perfect.

“This whole situation is so bizarre,” Phil mutters, checking himself in the mirror again.

“So is your entire life. So are those of everyone you know.” Natasha shrugs. “You look good, sir.”

He smiles. “Thank you, Agent Romanov.”

“Does the girl drink wine?”

“Probably not, but the Auberge does a great raspberry lemonade.”

Natasha just laughs, and Phil isn’t sure if it’s at Darcy’s expense or at his own intelligence failures. Natasha would know Darcy’s drinking habits by now. Hell, Natasha probably does. As it is, Phil is just glad to actually pick up his date for once. It makes him feel like a grown (if dead) man, instead of a high school kid, rousted out of his room to come play with the improbably gorgeous neighbor girl.

It’s as if Darcy is thinking the same thing. She’s waiting in the entryway to her apartment building, sheltering from the cool wind and the light rain outside, and she looks very… well, grown up is hardly right. Or perhaps too right. Either way, Phil is going to be safe and think of her look as ‘sophisticated,’ which it is. He usually sees Darcy in any number of colors, and so hasn’t had the opportunity to contemplate how devastating the Little Black Dress and String of Pearls can really be. The dress is a second skin down to her hips, where she flowers out and so does the skirt, in a cascade of gleaming black. She’s sitting on a bench, her skin shining white against the black. The pearls are almost invisible against her skin, and Phil feels slightly faint. She’s so pale and tender and soft, and yet so obviously and completely alive. He wants a piece, and is uncomfortable with how indefinite that thought is. He spends a moment in the car just watching her, and then forces himself to get out and walk to the door, fighting the urge to fidget with his collar and cuffs.

Darcy looks up when he comes in, and beams at him. “Hey, Phil.” He offers her a superfluous hand up, and she takes it. “You look great.”

“That’s my line.”

Darcy grins, lacing her warm fingers through his cold ones. “I’ll consider it said.”

Phil smiles back, and leads the way out to the car. Darcy tells him about her day as he drives, and it terrifies him that he’s already used to this report. He tells her a bit about the Auberge in the spaces she leaves him, and then they’re there, walking up the steps and into the building. It’s a velvet-lined music box of a place, and Darcy looks around in utter delight as the maître d leads them to their table.

It turns out that Darcy does drink wine, and the look on her face at her first taste of truly _good_ wine will stay with Phil for the rest of his unlife. She tries a little of his steak tartare as well, and is surprised at how much she likes it.

“Woah, it’s like sashimi, but beef.”

Phil chuckles. “Pretty much.”

Even when he was still alive, Phil hadn’t had an evening like this in a long time. He drives much more slowly on the way back to Darcy’s building because he doesn’t want it to end, and she seems to feel the same way, holding his hand at every stoplight. He parks against the curb, and sits there for a moment.

“Walk me up?” Darcy finally says, and Phil smiles.

“Of course.” He escorts her up to the door, past the doorman (who is giving them an odd look that Phil can’t quite decipher), and into the elevator. Darcy hits the correct floor button, and then kisses Phil the second the doors close. Her mouth is hot against his and Phil purrs, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close, glorying in the rapid beat of her heart.

The chime of the elevator arriving makes both of them jump, and Darcy pulls back, blushing. Phil just smiles, and kisses her again, more lightly this time. “Here we are,” he says, and Darcy smiles.

“Yeah. Thanks for everything.”

He holds the elevator long enough to see her get into her apartment safely, and then heads down, feeling stupid and dreamy and so incredibly happy that not even the doorman’s disapproving and incredulous stare can bother him. So what if some random guy thinks Phil is Darcy’s sugar daddy?


	12. Stabbing

Phil gradually slides back into his usual place within the complex machinery of SHIELD, and with that sense of place comes the usual deep reassurance. He’s still a dead old man with unbelievable luck, but he’s getting used to that now. His new body is becoming truly familiar to him, and he pursues the point by taking Darcy out dancing. Ballroom, of course, he’s aware of his limits. Darcy steps on his toes and apologizes profusely until he assures her than he doesn’t mind. And he really doesn’t. It doesn’t hurt much, and is well worth it for the privilege of guiding Darcy through the foxtrot. By the end of the evening she’s really getting the hang of it, flushed and laughing and so beautiful it hurts.

Phil still isn’t positive what do about that. It he had his old body he might have suggested something by now, but this is one thing that he can’t brazen away with confidence. It’s actually funny, because he has never really had erectile dysfunction of any kind before. He had wondered if it would start as he got older, and now it has. He might not have been able to keep up with Darcy before, but he could have at least fucked her properly. Now he’s not sure what to tell her or how to tell her or what is even important to her.

He is pondering the best way to bring the whole sex thing up without sounding pathetic or like a pig or god forbid, both as he pretends to study the menu. Darcy is apparently oblivious, debating between tonkatsu and udon. At least Phil’s condition has simplified his choices, and it’s all he can do not to laugh. He’s setting his menu down and about to say something when he catches a gleam of metal out of the corner of his eye. It’s the sunlight hitting something outside the window, and Phil registers what it is and reacts all in the same moment. He leaps up, grabs Darcy to shield her, and kicks their table up, letting it take the impact as the glass explodes inward.

“What the fuck?” Darcy squawks, and Phil growls, looking around the table’s edge at the massive and hideous robotic _thing_ that has just burst in. It doesn’t look anything like the Chitauri, ugly in a very clunky and human way.

“Tracking,” it intones in a flat, mechanical voice. The restaurant isn’t very full, but the few people in it are panicking and Phil knows he’ll have to account for that as he sizes the thing up, looking for weak points, paths of flight, and lines of fire.

“Should I be calling backup?” Darcy hisses, phone and Taser both out. The construct swivels its head around, targeting lasers flaring on and speckling the place with deadly little red dots.

“Yes,” Phil growls, and vaults over the table. This wouldn’t have worked before his death, but now he’s faster than human, and faster than that because he’s scared and he’s pissed and there’s supposed to be a better safety net than this. Someone who’s actually working today should have already dealt with this thing, or at least got word of the problem out before it could come crashing into this little Japanese restaurant to threaten Darcy. And everyone else, too, but Phil would be lying if he pretended that a large part of his rage wasn’t personal.

The thing grates, “Targets acquired,” and Phil climbs it like a squirrel running up a tree. He has his chopsticks in hand, too inured to this kind of bullshit not to have automatically improvised a weapon. They’re not split yet, and he’s able to jam them into the thing’s main camera. It makes a horrible noise, laser sights disappearing. Phil leaps off and watches it lurch around in a confused circle. Smoke starts wisping out of its head, and it tries to raise it weapons again before slumping to the floor.

There turn out to be more of them, but they’re renegade Hammertech, and are accordingly easy to dispose of. It still ruins the date, though, because Phil can barely make sure Darcy is all right before he has to go yell at Finsberg for not staying on top of things. It’s beyond irritating and he’s still pissed off that evening, when everything is finally wrapped up. He flops onto his bed fully dressed, which he never does unless sufficiently provoked, and calls Darcy.

“Hey, Phil. Finally done mopping up?”

“Yes. Sorry about all that.” He slips out of his shoes, letting each one thunk to the floor.

“Whatever, it was your day off. Somebody’s else’s fault.”

Phil smiles. “I try not to place blame, but sometimes it’s really easy.” Darcy laughs, agreeing and then getting more serious. It makes him tense, but he keeps it out of his voice. “Yes?”

“Uh, we need to talk, but not in a bad way, okay?”

“Okay. Phil knows this phrase is supposed to panic him, but sometimes people actually do need to talk. “When is a good time for you?”

“…Is it too late to come over?”

Phil’s heart beats just once, hard. “Not at all. I’ll let you in.”


	13. Burning

Phil can’t help scrambling around like a maniac, but his room is already fairly clean, and he’s still technically presentable. Sure, he doesn’t have his face on, but Darcy has seen him without it and expressed approval. That’s fine for a moment, and then he panics again, because what if she was just being nice? In the act of getting his living skin tone foundation out, Phil stops, and forces himself to take ten deep breaths. He forgets to breathe these days, so the exercise works better to distract and calm him than it ever has. He is not some stupid high school boy. He’s not even alive anymore, and he is going to keep his shit together. 

“You’re going to keep your shit together, Phil,” he tells his reflection very seriously, and holds his own gaze for a full twenty seconds before cracking up. With all that behind him and everything in order, Phil is actually fairly calm when Darcy arrives. Unescorted now, but with her visitor’s badge clipped to her coat. She smiles when she sees him, but it’s a shy smile, and her cheeks are pink.

“Hey, Phil.”

He smiles back, and his heart flutters when she kisses him. It’s not her usual chaste kiss of greeting, either, but something hungry and wet and intent. He moans before he can help himself, and Darcy shivers, twining her arms around his neck and clinging to him. She’s so warm against him, her tongue hot in his mouth and her quickening heartbeat reverberating through him.

“So, uh,” she breathes against his lips, breaking the kiss just enough to speak, “I really did come here to talk to you.”

“I’m listening,” he says softly, and shivers as she kisses him again.

“So, uh… I guess you’re not asexual or just not that into me? I mean, you kiss like you’re not.”

Phil knows he would be blushing if he still could. “I’m very much into you, Darcy. I just…” He sighs, and leads her to sit beside him on the edge of his bed, keeping his arm around her the whole way and cuddling her in against his side once they’re settled.

“So?” She murmurs, looking up at him.

He can’t help but glance away. “There are some… blood pressure issues.” He glances back, and she just blinks at him for a long and excruciating moment And then understanding dawns across her face.

“ _Ohh _,” she says. “So you can’t get it up anymore, huh?” The phrasing stings. A lot. She must see it in his face because she hugs him tightly. “Hey, I’m not saying it’s not cool. Stuff still feels good, right?”__

Phil smiles, feeling a little better. “Yes, it does.”

“Well, great! There’s like a million other things to do, anyway.” She gently strokes his cheek with the backs of her fingers, gazing into his eyes. “….Wanna get out of here and try some of them?”

They manage to get outside without indecorous haste, but just barely. Darcy came by cab, so Phil drives. He grips the wheel so tightly that it makes his hands hurt, and stares straight ahead. He’s pretty sure he looks angry, and risks a glance over at Darcy at a stoplight. She smiles.

“Staying focused?”

“Trying to.” He manages to smile back, and then they’re moving again. He makes it to Darcy’s building on autopilot and lets her lead the way in. The doorman doesn’t give them any kind of look, which is good because such a thing might cause Phil to murder him. As it is, they have to share the elevator with other human beings and that’s absolutely horrible enough. Darcy squeezes his hand comfortingly, and leads him onto the correct floor. The doors close behind them and they’re absolutely alone in the hallway.

“…I’d kiss you,” Darcy says softly, “but I’m afraid we wouldn’t actually make it into the apartment.”

“Right,” Phil says, a bit dazed, and follows her to the door and waits the eternity it takes for the key to slide in and disengage the lock. Darcy grins up at him when it clicks, and leads him inside. He has been here before, of course, but the whole thing feels furtive and new because Darcy doesn’t even bother to turn on the light. She just takes Phil to her bedroom, pushes him down onto his back on the mattress, and starts to peel him out of the top half of his suit. He lets her, trembling, and then cries out as she presses a kiss to his chest. Her mouth is so hot on his cold skin. He remembers drops of wax on living skin, and shakes as Darcy kisses him all over, soft and intent and so hot. He whimpers and clings to her, overwhelmed with softness and heat and closeness. And then she slides down and takes his soft cock into the inferno of her mouth and Phil almost screams. She sucks him so gently, so tender with him. He can’t possibly endure this for very long and doesn’t, shaking and crying out.

“Hey, you still get wet,” Darcy says when she pulls off at last.

“I do?” Phil mumbles.

“You do.” She giggles. “You’d better not pass out on me.”

“Couple minutes,” Phil says, and she cuddles into his arms.


	14. Loving

Phil does doze off, but opens his eyes to Darcy smiling at him, so it can’t have been very long. There’s something rather impudent in the expression, so Phil pounces on her, stripping her as fast as he can without tearing her clothes and rolling her onto her back. She shivers and whines, the sound rising in pitch and becoming helpless and breathy as he gently holds her throat in his teeth for one endless moment. He’s embarrassed when he lets go, but Darcy just looks up at him with huge, dilated eyes and pulls him into a deep kiss. 

“I trust you,” she says softly, and Phil moans, working his way down to cover her breasts in cold kisses and gentle bites. She whimpers and holds him there, tugging his head around in a wonderfully greedy and unselfconscious way, crying out when he sucks one nipple and kneads the other breast with one hand, firm and gentle. He spends what feels like hours just worshipping Darcy’s perfect chest before she insistently pushes him down. He grins up at her, lifting her legs and settling them over his shoulders before leaning in and drowning in her scent. He’s reminded yet again of how much sharper his senses are now as he whimpers and just breathes her in for a long moment. “Phil…” She whines at last, sounding desperate. He sighs, breathing cool air over her clit and making her yelp, inner lips quivering and shedding one perfectly round, clear drop. He laps it up without even thinking, and she groans, her heels digging into his back. “Phil, god fucking damn it-” She breaks off into a high, soft little cry that deepens into a moan as Phil licks deeper and deeper into her, groaning deep in his chest at the taste and the scent and the heat. 

In the back of his mind, Phil can't help but worry a little bit about literally eating Darcy. But the more he gets absorbed into what he’s doing, the less it bothers him. This is utterly familiar and human, the sweet stroke of a hard clit over and over his tongue, and the wonderful and idiosyncratic taste of Darcy. Blood would only pollute it, and he is very careful of his teeth as he finds the right strokes for his partner. Darcy likes the kind of long, loving licks that Phil particularly enjoys giving, and is wonderfully responsive, gasping and writhing and clawing at his shoulders. He purrs, and caresses all of her, each soft and silky-slick petal of flesh. She gasps for faster and harder, and he obeys, feeling what would be the beginnings of a second erection if he still got them at all. Darcy curses breathlessly and claws at his shoulders.

Darcy doesn’t quite squirt when she comes, but there’s a rush of sweet wetness in Phil’s mouth and his hungry groan underscores her loud, high-pitched cry. Phil laps her gently until she pushes his head away. He chuckles and eases her legs down, pressing a kiss to the inside of one knee before shifting over to lie on his back and pull her into his arms. She makes a contented little cooing noise, and when Phil starts to slowly stroke himself, her hand wanders down to join his, gentle and curious.

“I’m as bad as a man,” she mumbles, adorable in her losing battle to stay awake.

Phil laughs, already close to coming. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

Darcy giggles, and Phil moans quietly as his slow, slow come drips its cool way over their fingers.

It turns out that Darcy really does have a lot of alternatives to traditional intercourse, and she is bound and determined to talk Phil into trying all of them. It finally gives him the impetus he needs to get out of his SHIELD cell, because he’ll be damned if his and Darcy’s proclivities get around the whole agency. Which they will, if anything too telling happens on the premises. The day he hauls out the last of his boxes, he gives Darcy a call, more surprised than he really should be when she yells, “Housewarming party! I’ll be right over.”

Twenty minutes later she has him naked on the kitchen floor, covering him in kisses as she eases one end of a double-ended dildo into him. Phil’s prostate still works fine, and he groans as Darcy rubs along it. “Good, huh?”

“Y-yeah.”

“That’s my open-minded zombie,” she coos, and then sits up so he can watch her carefully lube her own hole, sliding onto the other end, panting. “Fuck, I always forget how big it is.”

“Take your time,” Phil gasps, staring. Darcy grins, and slowly, slowly sinks down, her cunt dripping down and adding to the lube. The dildo is flexible enough that she can cling to Phil, chest to chest, and he moans as she starts to rock against him.

“Fuck, you’re so soft…” She breathes, and the way she says it makes it the most wonderful condition in the world. Darcy whimpers and wriggles against him, humping along his soft cock and making him groan, tightening around the head of the dildo inside him. It feels like an eternity of closeness and heat and Darcy’s hard little clit stroking over and over and over him before they come, so close together that it’s almost the same thing, Darcy muffling a loud and unformed sound in a deep and desperate kiss. Phil moans softly as his slow heart flutters, and Darcy purrs.

“I think I’m gonna like living here,” Phil says at last, and Darcy throws back her head and laughs.


End file.
